Comparing Notes
by RachelStonebreaker
Summary: In the first days after the Fellowship has left Rivendell Gimli reflects on what it's like to be in the company of hobbits and how the stories he's heard about them from his father and cousins has colored his perspective...


**Title:** Comparing Notes  
**Author: **Rachel Stonebreaker  
**Email:** **Rating:** G  
**Characters:** The Nine Walkers  
**Publish Date: **April 2005  
**Summary:** In the first days after the Fellowship has left Rivendell Gimli reflects on what it's like to be in the company of hobbits and how the stories he's heard about them from his father and cousins has colored his perspective.  
**Disclaimer: **JRRT created these wonderful creatures. His estate owns all rights. I just take them out to the pub for a drink now and again. I do NOT make any money, fame or other gain from them. Don't sue. It's bad for your karma.

**Authors Notes:** This is in answer to Marigold's Challenge 15. The theme for Challenge 15, for April, is to write a hobbity story that includes at least one non-hobbit member of the Fellowship. The story can take place in any time period, and in any location, and you can choose to include whichever Fellowship character or characters you wish.

I just had to add a degree of difficulty (she says sarcastically) by using someone else's plot. This plot came from Shirebound's Plot Bunnies wwwxlivejournalxcom - users - shirebound - 109081xhtml (replace x with . and - with /) which is a good place to capture feral bunnies needed to be fed and taken care of. Mind yourself though, they are NOT tame. Gimli reflects on the differences between the hobbit who travelled with his father and the hobbits who are in their company (or something like that, I really should go find the exact challenge).

I had help on this. My beta wishes to remain anonymous. Still, I will say, "Thank you for being nit-picky. It improved the story!"

* * *

**Comparing Notes**

The sun was just beginning to rise on the second day out from the Elven home of Rivendell. It had been an arduous start for the admittedly odd company of Nine Walkers. They'd not made much ground, though on this second 'day' they'd made much more than the previous. It was hard walking for the hobbits and the dwarf. They, more than the wizard, men, and elf, had a rough go of it. Their legs were shorter for one thing and despite the fact that both races were doughty, the others in the company were seasoned travellers and quite used to covering 300 furlongs (or more) at a time. Even for the sturdy dwarf this was a lot of territory. For the hobbits, in particular the recently recovered ill and the very young, it was rapidly becoming beyond their abilities.

At least for tonight, it was over. Gimli looked around and was satisfied. Camp had been set up and watches were decided though it was not really necessary this close to the Elven homeland. The little fat hobbit, Samwise, was making food for everyone as he had the night before. Gandalf and all the hobbits seemed to think this arrangement was the best. Who was Gimli to contradict? He certainly was no cook. But Samwise could and appeared to enjoy it even if it was over a very, very small and well-behaved fire. Gimli smiled. It was good to travel with wary folks but it was arguable as to whether or no it was better to have a hot food. He set out his bedroll and after checking it a second time, making sure his weapons were within easy reach, he looked about for a place to sit where he could watch the sun rise for its journey into day.

Boromir watched as Gimli sat down on a nearby flat rock. The dwarf pulled something out from inside his tunic and took a drink. Noticing the man watching him, Gimli wordlessly offered up the flask. Out of politeness Boromir thought twice about accepting the obvious tot. Was it proper to accept or proper to decline? Gimli, having noticed the hesitation, couldn't help but challenge this new, and in his opinion, overbearing Man, "Go on, it's not poison. Neither is it too strong."

Boromir was taken aback by the brusqueness of the dwarf. He was used to the gruffness of soldiers but this dwarf put a whole new meaning on the word "blunt". It had been a very trying trek and tempers were short, particularly among those not used to travel in a company moving at fast pace. The first weeks in a new company were always difficult. There were so many personalities to work with. This company certainly was not like any Boromir had ever joined. Wizard, elf, dwarf, hobbits and the Ranger certainly made for strange companions. Where were the people he stood a chance at understanding? He decided this was a time to use some of the diplomatic training his father was so fond of imposing. A compliment was in order coupled with a delicate and graceful decline of the offer. "It's not the strength I worry about. I must admit, I do not wish to offend when the gesture is obviously meant in friendship. I am confident it is a most tasty brew. Yet, I've no knowledge of dwarvish ways and wonder are you merely being polite and therefore I should decline or would you be offended if I refused?"

Gimli didn't even mull over the comment but agreed immediately and gruffly that he was merely being polite. He set the flask in open sight and turned to inspect his boots. "Tis no skin off my nose one way or the other but the offer still stands."

Boromir decided that the offer was genuine and if he was going to have to remain a companion of someone so taciturn as this dwarf he'd better make a serious effort to get to know him. Reaching over, he took the rather large flask, uncorked it, and took a stout drink.

It was fire! FIRE! Coughing and choking wasn't something he did gracefully and he was at a serious loss for gracefulness right at the moment. But, never the less, Boromir carried on. Lucky for him, he'd corked the flask before he actually swallowed thereby alleviating the worry of spilling whatever vile brew was in that flask so boldly proffered. Catching his breath as discreetly as he could he smiled and agreed, "It's really not that strong." Though he was noticeably flushed.

Feeling pleased at the response to his brandy, Gimli settled more firmly on the rock and set about to retrieve his pipe and weed pouch from its hidden recesses in his tunic. Again he offered to the Man but this time, knowing discretion was indeed the most valid point of being wise, Boromir refused. Smoking was something he was more than familiar with from just the brief few days in Rivendell spent with the dwarf, wizard, hobbits, and ranger. No one in Gondor smoked pipeweed. In fact, of the other companions, only the Elf shared his dislike for the weed. But this did not seem to stop at least one if not two or three of the Company from smoking at every halt or pause. But this time, he did not get up and leave as he had every other time. He would tough it out; a little smoke wouldn't kill him. Boromir was feeling more than a bit warm from the dwarvish brew and as such was feeling magnanimous.

Gimli smiled again and changed his opinion about this Man just ever so slightly. To himself he noted "Hmmmm…. not nearly as bad as I'd thought. He might be tolerable after a fashion."

They fell into an easy, idle chatter about their weapons, carefully finding their way around the difficult task of getting to know one's traveling companions. This was no mean feat given they were thrown together with little preparation. Neither man nor dwarf had been in the extended company of any race outside their own. Being pushed into a serious mission including 5 different races (or six if you considered Rangers to be distinction enough from men of Gondor, upon which Gondorians and Rangers certainly argued was distinct enough) could be considered more than a difficult job. Of course sharing the flask again didn't hurt the conversation any and both Gimli and Boromir realized this and participated appropriately.

The conversation had lulled comfortably as is the wont when two companions find themselves in agreement. They'd been discussing the merits of throwing arms versus thrusting weapons and were in complete agreement as to the where, when and what of the topic. It was pleasant talking with someone who was knowledgeable enough to argue a point and wise enough to acknowledge that there can be differences of opinions.

Happily sitting in contemplation of their favorite methods of dispatching an enemy they were both surprised when their solitude was abruptly broken by the loud intrusion of a pair of angry voices.

The squabble seemed to break out from, amazingly, the exact same location as it had yesterday just about this time. The cook fire. Both Gimli and Boromir found themselves staring over at the interruption despite their combined years of studied nonchalance when living in a tight community where tempers easily flared. Something of this magnitude was just too hard to ignore.

Obviously there were at least two hobbits at odds. It looked to be the fattest and the youngest. Again. If Gimli had them straight, they were Samwise, the Ring-bearer's servant and Peregrin, the Ring-bearer's youngest cousin. At least Gimli thought he had them straight. He'd prided himself in his attempt to learn their names. Keeping them straight though had been another problem all unto itself. They were all just about the same height, shorter than him. They were all just about the same weight, plump but not as stout as he. Though with this observation, he smiled, over the last two days, he had begun to be able to tell them apart. It was easy with the Ring-bearer; he was obviously the oldest, tallest, fairest, thinnest and most unpresuming. His servant was equally unpresuming but seriously fatter, shorter and browner. If one just compared the two it was easy to tell them apart. As to telling the other two apart, well, telling them apart took some thinking. In fact, when all four were together and arguing, it was hard to tell any of them apart. Hobbits all looked the same to him; especially the two cousins who weren't exceedingly short or tall or overly fat or thin, as far as hobbits went.

Just when Gimli thought he'd figured out who was Pippin and who was Merry (he'd never understand why anyone should have to have more than one name, it only added to the complexity) he was surprised to find that he had them mixed up. Again. No, wait. He had them right. He thought. Yes, indeed, it was a repeat of yesterday's event. He realized the latest fireside outburst was most definitely between Peregrin and Samwise when he heard the younger cousin's loud, "Give over Sam! I'm near done in!" followed by Samwise's angry shout, "Not a chance, now, OUT! Mr. Merry! Come get yer cousin or I'll be cookin' him next!" followed up with a light tap across the bridge of the nose with a spoon. The youngling obviously was leaning far, far too close to the skillet for the cook's tastes.

"I said, OUT! And I mean it. It ain't done yet, and you know it so you can just sit back with the rest of th' others and wait your turn."

Pippin had no intention of sitting back fast enough to suit Sam and instead attempted another raid on the nearly cooked meat. For his efforts he received a serious crack across his knuckles with the cooking spoon, eliciting a startled and loud yelp. Even for Gimli, who was used to the sharpness of dwarf cooks around their environ, this seemed a bit extreme. But then again, they were hobbits. He didn't even pretend to understand them.

Sam was beside himself. No one in HIS family had ever behaved so badly in front of company as was Mr. Pippin. How was it that manners seemed to have been left behind with the Elves? Mr. Pippin had been ever so good in Rivendell when Sam had thought about it actually. Come to think on it, he'd been fairly decent the whole journey from Crickhollow, despite Sam's misgivings about bringing the irrepressible and often obnoxious tween with them. True, he complained incessantly and got into everything but he was a tween and a Took, and well, Pippin. But yesterday and today seemed both to be some sort of test of Sam's patience.

Merry watched with mixed feelings. Poor Sam! Pippin apparently had taken it upon himself to attempt to filch any and all food that had not been physically tied down. Merry was going to have to speak to Frodo about this. Better himself than Sam. Merry could just see it coming. He could practically hear the whispered shy and reluctant complaint from Sam to Frodo. It would go something like, "Mr. Frodo, sir. Not that I'm one to say nothing but would it be possible to have Mr. Pippin go fetch wood or sumpthin' t' give him work? He seems a might bit bored." When, in fact, Merry would bet a half pint that Sam was really thinking, "We're going to have to watch Mr. Pippin a tad closer, if you get my drift. It won't do to have one of our own behavin' so rudely like this. Not while Sam's in charge of the camp fare. No, it wouldn't! Embarrassin' us like that and all. You'd think he was some grubbin' Smallburrow and not Mr. Paladin Took's only son." No, Frodo, right now, wouldn't hear the concern in Sam's voice and Sam would just get more frustrated. And that would make everyone even more uptight. It would be best to figure out a solution himself.

Merry decided he should take Pippin out of the situation and then make a delicate comment to Sam about it and make sure Frodo understood that Pip was over the top with his antics of late. That should ease the state of affairs some. Merry got up to go retrieve Pippin from the range of Sam's cook spoon. As he got close enough he caught the tail end of Sam's whisper to Pippin. He'd have won his bet.

"Try that one more time Master Peregrin and it'll be no love-tap on your nose, no it won't. I'll come this close to cracking the spoon across your head, cousin of Mr. Frodo or no! Don't go embarassin' us so. Just where are your manners?"

Oh, Sam was serious tonight! It wasn't very often but it wasn't the first time either that Merry had witnessed Sam chastise Pippin as if Pip were his little brother. Though, to keep from embarrassing Sam, Merry would never let on. After all, Sam was brought up to be a "good servant" and he'd die of humiliation if he knew Merry had heard. But Pippin was a special case and obviously in order to save more than just Sam's sanity, Sam had taken it upon himself to try to keep the wayward lad in his place. A place which was supposed to be one of learning to be a gentle hobbit despite Pippin's attempts at disregarding that fact from time to time. Merry laughed to himself and rather than doing what he usually would, which would be to goad Pippin to try to steal the sausages again because, frankly, Merry was hungry and bored too, he kept his mouth shut. It was a good thing. Frodo wasn't as oblivious to the situation as Merry had thought. He caught the warning look from Frodo to their young cousin. Pippin didn't though and continued to loudly complain that "no spoons would need to be cracked if Sam would just hurry up and finish with cooking!" He complained bitterly that he was famished. So, famished in fact that he'd waste away to nothing just sitting and waiting! Pippin was far from wasting away. He'd put on quite a lot of weight in Rivendell where the elves fed him non-stop sometimes just in awe of watching him put away so much food.

Gimli sat in amazement that no one had brained anyone yet. Samwise was so indignant one could almost see the steam pouring from his pointed ears.

Despite Sam being so annoyed, Frodo couldn't keep a straight face. Pippin really could put on a show. Frodo started laughing as he warned Pippin, "You'd best mind Sam now or you won't be getting any food tonight. I wouldn't cross the hobbit feeding you, Pippin. Let that tap on your nose be a warning."

Pippin glared ferociously at Frodo and then at Merry and then at Sam. He looked so affronted. It was really too much; Frodo and Merry broke out in peals of laughter. "Oh, I can't stand that look, can you cousin?" Merry wiped his eyes of mock tears while elbowing Frodo. Frodo shook his head and gave Sam a sympathizing look. "I'll try to keep him out of your hair, Sam, I promise."

"It's not my hair I'm worrying about Sir, it's them taters and sausages. He'll have them gone before they're right cooked, he will." Sam muttered almost too quiet for anyone to hear. Especially since Pippin had taken his complaints to Gandalf voicing loudly that he, a growing hobbit, couldn't be expected to wait all evening for a meal.

In reply Gandalf shook his head and raised his eyes to the sky as if imploring someone else to answer. Even his legendary patience was being tried by the actions of one certain hobbit.

Pippin gave up and went stomping back to the cook fire where he plunked himself down with an audible "hrrrumph", crossed his arms across his chest and glared at the small fire. He didn't dare look at Sam. He knew he was pushing his luck when Merry didn't come to his rescue. Still, he was madder than a cat caught in the rain for being chased away. He really was hungry.

Merry came over and sat beside him offering companionship with a pinch from his pipeweed pouch. Pippin almost didn't take it, just to spite but thought better of it. Smarter to smoke Merry's weed than his own.

"You should really let Sam be, Pip. Particularly when he's nice enough to cook for us."

"Yes, but then if I was cooking, we'd be eating now." Pippin sighed as he tamped down the pipeweed in his second best pipe (the best was tucked away very carefully in his pack, between his extra shirt and breeches).

"And we'd not be eating nearly as well." Merry countered as Frodo sat down near them.

"What? You don't appreciate my cooking, cousin?" Pippin managed to sound insulted as he lit his pipe. "I'm a very good cook, I'll have you know."

"Good at adding extra dark crispy coatings to all your meat and that distinct charcoal flavor to your baked goods, you mean," Merry countered leaning back on his elbows and looking over at Frodo and grinning.

Frodo gave him a very direct warning look that said, "Don't start."

"Except you do make a very delicious omelet. I'll give you that. I like the way you sauté your onions in butter first. Gives them a nice mellow flavor," Merry deftly added. He recognized that it probably wouldn't be a good idea to wrap Pippin around the axle just now, as fun as it was. There were too many Big People watching. Merry had forgotten for a moment that they weren't at leisure to joke and prank. They still weren't exactly sure where they fit into this odd assortment of peoples. Frodo was right. Best to just calm their cousin and get on with the evening.

As the hobbits fell into discussing the best ways to cook onions, omelets and other delectable foods, they branched out into their own ideas on how to set up camp, how to make a good walking stick, how to pack a pack. The conversation came back around to parsnips and if they were best with potatoes or carrots. This all happened in about the time it took for Gimli to finish his pipe, through Samwise dishing out the food and everyone getting their share and settling down to eat. The silence lasted just about as long as it took Peregrin to inhale his first helping. Then a one-sided conversation ensued while he impatiently waited for everyone else to finish so he could finish what was left. Merry soon joined him and the conversation turned to hunting large game, as they called roe deer.

Boromir wondered off hand if they ever shut up, especially about food. He'd finished eating, cleaned his plate, thanked the cook and sat back down next to the dwarf as it wasn't his turn on watch and he wasn't really tired yet. He listened to the idle banter in utter amazement.

Aragorn settled in nearby and set about looking over his knives as an old habit of all long-time fighters. He seemed to have shut out the chitchat; though the more Boromir watched the more he saw the tension in the ranger's jaw. Time to ease the pressure again, Boromir reflected.

"They talk non-stop, it would seem. Is this normal or are they just young and nervous about being away from their comfortable homes?"

Aragorn looked up and smiled wanly. He appreciated the attempt at lightening the air but had no real answer. "You're asking the wrong man, friend. I've about as much actual experience with hobbits as you. Gandalf would be a good one to ask."

They all three looked about but did not see the wizard. Though he was clear across the camp area, Legolas, on watch yet hearing their conversation with ease, nodded his head in the direction of the dense woods to let them know Gandalf had gone that way; no doubt patrolling the area and gathering information.

"Well, as our prime expert seems to have left us to ourselves with the chattering magpies for the moment, we will have to turn to the only other person who might be able to give us a clear answer" Aragorn turned to Gimli with an expectant look.

"Me? Me? I've no experience with these creatures," Gimli sputtered in response.

"Oh, but your father does. I remember a conversation between you and Bilbo back in Rivendell where you two seemed in deep conversation about the travels of Bilbo with your father and kin. According to the appreciative nods of Bilbo, you seemed to tell the story very well."

"That? My father's stories? Being able to recount my father's adventures in retrieving the treasures stolen by that worm, Smaug? How does that give me the status of Hobbit Expert? Do not flatter me so, Ranger. I stand by my ignorance of hobbits. They confuse me to no end."

"That may be so, Master Dwarf," Boromir pressed on seeing a chance to drown out the hobbits' chatter with some of their own conversation. "But right now you are our only source. Pray tell, do us the favor and let us in on some of their secrets, as recounted by your father. Surely we should be prepared as much as possible."

"Ah, where to begin? I'm one of the best storytellers, so I've been told. I might be able to remember a few things my father talked about when he ventured out with Thorin and Company with the help of The Thief, Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit whom we met in Rivendell. Not much of a thief, if you ask me, by the looks of him, but my father swears it was the hobbit who knew how to strike the anvil on many occasions for them." The tale of how Gimli's father, Gloin, met with Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit turned thief began to unfold.

As Aragorn knew Bilbo personally and had heard this story a few times already, and as Gandalf had reappeared, he smiled and quietly excused himself. Gimli and Boromir both nodded but the dwarf didn't break stride in his story telling.

In an attempt to understand these strange creatures a little better, Boromir tried to keep track of some of the finer details of hobbit behavior as evidenced by the now elderly but then half a century younger, Bilbo, and retold by Gimli.

It would seem that food, the ability to cook and eat said food, and discussions about eating in general seemed to be primary points of focus for hobbits in general, though listening to Gimli discourse on this point, Boromir had to secretly smile. The dwarf might feel that the hobbits were over-zealous in their attack on food, but dwarves, or at least this particular dwarf could almost match them.

Gimli's story was fascinating. He was a good storyteller even though Boromir had been skeptical. He'd learned very fast that dwarves are prone to exaggeration. As the tale wound down, more for the length of time than for the lack of material, Boromir ticked off a few of the things he could remember about hobbits in general. Or at least he hoped they covered hobbits in general. He really did need to figure out these creatures or they'd drive him crazy before the month was out.

He thought on the obvious: The enjoyment of riddles, talking about anything in general and nothing in particular, the recitation of ancestors and exacting family links, tremendous accuracy when throwing stones, quiet as cats, and keen eyesight, all of these Boromir kept in his head to see if they bore true for all hobbits.

But one thing stood out as obviously not a common hobbit trait, at least not in all hobbits. Gimli mentioned that Bilbo fretted over not having a pocket-handkerchief. Apparently, according to Bilbo, no self-respecting hobbit would leave his hole without one. Well not all worried over this lack. Boromir had overheard a chastisement last night when they started out. Frodo had reprimanded Pippin for the fact that Pippin did not possess said required linen. Pippin shrugged off the dressing down which caused Boromir to watch for a reaction from the other hobbits. Sam shook his head and looked at his feet while Merry rolled his eyes. Frodo just sighed. The casual attitude of Frodo's youngest cousin towards the disciplining added with this tidbit from Gimli went far to tell Boromir several things about their small companions. One, handkerchiefs were not absolutely required hobbit attire. Two, at least Bagginses felt they were important. Three, Pippin got away with quite a lot that probably other young hobbits didn't. Four, Boromir still had a lot to learn about hobbits.

The man stood and stretched, finally ready to attempt a nap. His was the third watch, which was coming up soon so he wouldn't be sleeping long, but he knew he needed to try. Listening to Gimli tell tales was a pleasant enough diversion. He shouldn't be long falling to sleep. As he packed away his small arms and made to go to his bedroll he glanced in the direction of furtive whispering, obviously the Little Folk, probably Merry and Pippin by the sounds of the arguing as to who was sleeping on rocks. Boromir sighed lightheartedly and remarked, "I suppose it could be worse. We could have to cook for them. We'd fair far worse than having to listen to a few squabbles and to be confused as to why they haven't killed each other yet."

Unmistakably the voice of Samwise rose above the squabbling whispers, "If'n you two don't pipe down, I'll be forced to take the frying pan t' both of you!"

The silence was so quick it was almost as audible as the whispering had been.

Standing as well Gimli said, "I agree. At least that much is the same from my father's stories: they surely know the proper use of cookware."

The End.


End file.
